Can I tell you all a story,
the story of lost love,
the story of regret,
the story of pain.

My story written in red across my arms,
across a fading attachment to reality,
across my shattered heart,
its pieces on the floor that I sink to,
so slow.

Can I tell you this story,
of constant life-or-death,
of feeling the end nearing,
my conclusion to this novel,
of my self-destructing life.

One more line in my story written in red,
have I gotten what I deserve?
Did I deserve any of this at all?

Perhaps you felt stressed by what we had,
because I'm just so ****** up,
because I need to be told
I won't be given up on,
since my intuition says
it's surely inevitable

I told you it was anxiety,
but I saw you leaving,
the one I loved more than anyone,
the one I still love more than anyone,
the one I trusted not to give up on me,
the one that promised she wouldn't give up.

I wonder, as I float in limbo,
when does this pain end?